32, and You're Beautiful
by RococonoKokoro
Summary: When he is 32, he meets John Watson. A war veteran, doctor, and a crack-shot. A healer and a killer. A thoroughly remarkable, unremarkable man.   Sherlock/John. Spoilers for The Great Game.


When he is thirty-two, he meets John Watson. A war veteran, doctor, and a crack-shot. A healer and a killer. A man who kills for him 24 hours after they've met, and giggles with him over lo mein and fortune cookies afterward. A thoroughly remarkable, unremarkable man.

Later that year, John Watson is kidnapped and strapped to enough Semtex to eradicate three blocks. _His John_. For the first time, Sherlock Holmes understands the murderous rage that drives jealous lovers to murder, that spawns so many domestic crimes that he has always dismissed as 'dull'. White-hot in the first onslaught, taking his breath away as Jim Moriarty prances (there really is no other word for it) across the seemingly endless tile floor toward him, nattering on about how they are 'made for each other'. He can barely keep his end of their conversation (more like a dance) going, distracted as he is by John's horribly steady left hand and dilated pupils. And John, his beautiful, selfless John, grabs Moriarty and yells for Sherlock to run. Even if he wanted to, he can't, as his legs seem to have sprouted roots that moor him to the cold tile. His arch-nemesis doesn't understand John, doesn't see how astonishing and brilliant he is, is willing to sacrifice anything to get to Sherlock Holmes. Trying to go through John Watson was his mistake.

Moriarty finally leaves after throwing the flash drive into the clear, chlorinated water, and Sherlock almost destroys John's cardigan in his haste to get the bomb off him and as far away from them as possible. He stammers something out in gratitude, desperately trying to hold himself together, trying not to dash after Moriarty, spurred by the cold bank that the smouldering rage has taken. Is he scratching his head with John's gun? John cracks a joke, and his attention slowly oozes back to the source, to his heart. He begins to take a breath, one that's untainted with terror and calculating rage, one that tastes of chlorine and John, but the return of laser sights stops his breath midway. 'You can't be allowed to continue', the consulting criminal taunts. He locks eyes with John, makes a joint decision, and points the gun at the pile of Semtex. As soon as he presses the trigger, even before fire begins to blossom from the explosion, John barrels into him, knocking them both into the pool. Sherlock glimpses a sheet of fire blazing above their watery shield, and bits of plaster raining down on them, before everything goes dark.

He regains consciousness outside the smoking swim centre, John compressing his chest to release the water in his lungs. 'Don't- you- _ever_- do- that- again- you- great- git!' John emphasises each word with a push to Sherlock's sternum, assuring himself that all the water has finally been expelled before he allows Sherlock to sit up. 'I could say the same to you', the detective wheezes, clasping John's shoulder to maintain his upright position. John runs his fingers distractedly through his hair, peering into Sherlock's eyes, seemingly unaware of the blood streaming down the side of his face. 'No concussion, dilation 50%, numerous facial petechiae, no severe hemorrhaging, nothing broken, colour returning...' John is muttering under his breath, a bizarre grocery list.

Sherlock leans forward and presses his forehead to John's. 'You do know that you're bleeding, John?' he murmurs, lacing his fingers with the hand on his cheek. John waves his concern away ('it's only a superficial scalp wound, you know how those bleed'), but closes his eyes and draws a rattling breath, pulse jumping in his throat. Sherlock brings his lips softly to rest upon his doctor's, breathing in the scent of John, the tang of copper and chemicals, the smell of waterlogged clothing. John's mouth quirks up into the kiss, and they breathe each other in quietly, separating only a few inches. 'You're a mad bastard, you know? An absolute nutter.' John grins at him, feeling the familiar pound of adrenaline fade into the regular thrumming in his veins. 'Could be dangerous', Sherlock replies smoothly, stealing another quick kiss before they both straighten up, slowly, wincing at the screaming protest in their battered muscles.

Studying Sherlock's wince, John prods lightly at his side, and grimaces. 'I was wrong. You've a cracked rib.' Sherlock moves forward to lean upon him, embracing him as much as his (ouch) side will allow. 'You'll just have to take care of me, Doctor.' He nuzzles John hair, careful of the still-bleeding wound, and closes his eyes as the sound of sirens increases. 'I do think that Lestrade will give us a lift home, don't you?'

John makes the expected protest ('you should be in hospital!'), but Sherlock argues quite rationally that there's little else to be done for a cracked rib aside from wrapping it, and John can do that better than some dewy-eyed nurse who is on his first year. After a few moments of debate, in which Lestrade surprisingly takes Sherlock's side (although he also suggests that _John_ be the one sent to A&E, which is not well met by either inhabitants of Baker Street), they are on their way home in Lestrade's ERV, quietly clinging to each other's hands. Lestrade drops them outside of 221B, assured of their safety and requesting their presence at Scotland Yard the following afternoon for statements.

They trudge numbly up the stairs to find Mycroft standing in their living room, for all the world as though he were a permanent fixture. Before Sherlock can say anything, he merely states, 'James Moriarty has fled the country. My agents are working on his background as I speak. We believe he will go to India.' Sherlock nods curtly. Mycroft turns to John and smiles, the first true, genuine smile John has ever seen on the older Holmes' face. 'Thank you, Doctor Watson. We are both in your debt.' John blinks, clears his throat, and finally decides on a bemused nod. Mycroft returns it, bids them a good evening, and sees himself out.

John's begun bleeding again, through the gauze taped onto his head by a medical aide, and so he retires to the bathroom. Sherlock, after uncharacteristically hanging both their coats up, joins him, perching on the rim of the bathtub as John wipes his skin clean with a prep pad, injects lidocaine into the area around the long cut, threads a suture needle, and begins to sew his skin together. Squaring his knots and snipping the excess thread, he finishes, cleaning the area with warm water and patting it dry with a clean towel that Sherlock hands him, before wrapping fresh gauze around the area and taping it securely.

Rinsing his hands, he finally turns to face Sherlock, eyes wide and shaken. 'Sherlock', he whispers, as the now-standing detective crosses the last few steps and engulfs John in a desperate hug that is more gingerly returned, for the sake of his rib. 'John, John, John, John', Sherlock chants under his breath as the events of the evening threaten to overwhelm him. John, his wonderful, incomparable John, was so close to death tonight at the hands of a madman that Sherlock had encouraged. 'No', John says, his voice muffled against Sherlock's chest, 'you are not to blame. If not me, someone else important. Lestrade. Mrs Hudson. It's not your fault that he's a psychopath.' John can feel his flatmate shaking slightly, and silently curses anyone who believes that Sherlock Holmes is a sociopath. John lifts his head and pulls Sherlock's face to his, scant inches away, and looks into his eyes. 'Sherlock Holmes, I love you, and I. Regret. Nothing. I am a soldier, and I swear to you, this battlefield is worth anything that happened tonight, anything that will happen. You are worth everything.'

Sherlock's face crumples in a mixture of relief and pain. 'John, you are my heart. Moriarty knows it as well as I. I could have lost you tonight, and I couldn't bear- life without you would be-'. John raises a finger to his lover's perfectly-formed lips. 'But you didn't. I'm here, and I promise you, right now, that I will do everything in my power to stay with you.' John removes his finger and kisses Sherlock, searing, full of life and love and promise and need. Sherlock leans into the kiss, loses himself in _John_ and how alive John is, comes back to himself when they fall on their bed. He kisses his way across John's collarbones, along his jaw, up to the corner of John's mouth, whispering how much John is his world. 'You are so beautiful, John, do you know? You are my rock, my compass, my everything.' They lie amongst the sheets, holding each other close, simply breathing the essence of the other in, reassuring themselves.

Sherlock's ever-spinning mind is quiet now, with the only man who can take him out of his thoughts, who can gentle his mind like a fractious yearling. Together, in the dark of the early morning, they forge a determination to find Moriarty and end his threats, end his cavalier treatment of human life, and end the threat to their hard-earned, long-sought happiness. Dying is not something 'people _do_', but something to be prevented. Actual, human lives, and Sherlock finds that he cares, and it is not a mistake, but a motivation to end this game once and for all. They don't know when, or how, or where, but John Watson and Sherlock Holmes will see the great game to its finish, together.

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><p>Thank you for reading! Reviews are always welcome, and help me to know what I'm doing right (or wrong).<p> 


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